


Baby, you were my picket fence.

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anxiety Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Drug Use, Minor Violence, Very Minor, attempted suicide, author is a skilled tagger, but its so tiny guys seriously, gratuitous use of foul language, kind of sex but not really much sex, major joe/pete BROtp feels, of the pete variety, yeah basically thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:30:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe loves Andy. There's never been any question of that. So, in a way, he's stuck between a rock and a hard place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, you were my picket fence.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried! Reviews are great please be nice to me bye!

Joe loves Andy.

 

There’s never been any question about that.

 

But, see, there’s a difference between loving someone and wanting to drag them down with you, and Joe knows better than anyone else that when you tie a cinder block to someone’s foot, they’re not getting out of that river anytime soon.

 

So, in a way, he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 

In a way.

 

-0-

  
  


It’s cold as balls on the bus, and they can all see their own breath, but it’s okay, because Joe’s pressed up between Andy’s legs, his back to Andy’s chest, and Andy’s arms are wrapped around his waist. Andy’s nose is pressed into the crook of Joe’s neck, and each time he inhales, Joe feels it reverberate through his own lungs. It’s perfect.

  
  


Andy tilts his head, and presses a soft kiss to the edge of Joe’s jaw as they make a sharp turn, and Joe closes his eyes, and feels warmer than he’s ever felt, in spite of the cold.

  
  


-0-

  
  


They play Phoenix, and it’s a little more hardcore than they’re used to, there’s a lot of the usual sort of teenage girl-type fans, but there are also a fuckload of other guys and some bikers and it’s pretty crazy, to say the least. Ends up with a mosh pit, but that’s not unusual.

 

What _is_ unusual is that when Joe leans down to high five a sixteen year old girl wearing a Grand Theft Autumn tee, she grabs him, and pulls him down into the fray like a twig off a branch. Which is fine. Well, which would be fine, if it weren’t for the fact that instead of what usually happens (i.e., Pete, or Pat, or whoever it is getting carried on top of the crowd for a minute and then coming back) Joe gets pulled down, and doesn’t come back up.

 

It happens in the blink of an eye. One minute, the crowd is fine, and Joe’s fine, and everything’s fine, and the next a scream echoes through the venue, louder than the usual ones, “Get off him!” and Joe’s bleeding, and falling down, and Andy’s out of his chair in less than a second, bounding downstage. Pete gets there first, drops his bass on the floor like it’s nothing and dives down into the fray, pushing and shoving good guys and bad guys out of the way, and suddenly, Andy can see.

 

Joe’s on the floor, and there are dudes all around him (and Andy knows the type, the ones who come to the concerts to pick up younger fans and bring them home, the kind of guys who they all hate like nobody’s business), and there’s this one who’s got Joe in a chokehold, squeezing tight, with pupils blown wide from whatever the fuck he’s on, and sweat pouring down his face.

 

In an instant, Pete’s there, grabbing this guy with a kind of anger Andy’s only ever seen him show toward himself, and he can only watch as Pete pulls him off, and slams him down on the ground, hears the sickening crack as his head hits the concrete floor. People are screaming, and Patrick’s shouting at everyone to get back, and Andy lands next to Joe on the ground, has somehow managed to get to the floor without noticing, and he doesn’t even know where to start, because there’s blood everywhere.

 

He grazes the tips of his fingers over Joe’s cheeks, down his chest, and he’s not moving, and god, Andy’s never been so scared in his life.

 

“Joe? Joe, wake up. Come on, wake up.” He mumbles it like a mantra, whispers it into Joe’s hair as he picks up his head, cradling it in his lap, and Joe groans, presses his cheek against Andy’s leg and curls his body inward, just a little. Andy cards his fingers through Joe’s hair, rests their foreheads together as the crowd gets cleared out.

 

He kind of faintly registers that Pete’s shouting, roaring at the top of his lung something along the lines of _“Let me go, let me fucking go, get the fuck off, Patrick, let me fucking go!_ ” and that Patrick is trying, and failing, to talk sense into him, _“Pete, you gotta breathe, okay? Just breathe, you can’t--” “Oh, yes, I fucking can.”_ And Andy feels his stomach drop out as he realizes that Pete wants to kill the guy who did this, wants to beat him into the dirt until he can’t move and then keep going.

 

He looks up, and Patrick has his arms wrapped around Pete from behind, is resolutely holding him back as Pete struggles to get free, trying to get to the dude who is now on the floor, coughing and spluttering like he’s never been so surprised in his life. And Pete...Pete’s gone feral, that’s the only word Andy can use to describe it, snarling and clawing at Patrick’s arms like a wild animal, and part of Andy wants to just get up and help him get free, because this asshole deserves whatever Pete wants to dish out, but he doesn’t, because Joe mumbles something, and he immediately shifts his attention back to the mop of curls in his lap, leaning back down and shaking his head.

“What?”

Joe swallows weakly, and reaches one hand up, patting Andy’s cheek.

“No more shows in Phoenix.”

Andy can’t help but laugh.

  
  


-0-

 

“Pete.” Joe says softly, and he’s gotta be careful, so careful, because when Pete freaks he really, really freaks. “Pete, breathe.” Pete buries his face in his knees, and his knuckles go white in his hair, and Joe reaches up, rests one hand on Pete’s bicep, and squeezes gently while his best friend tries to get his lungs to work.

“I can’t go out there.” Pete gasps, and Joe shakes his head.

“Yes, you can.”

“I _can’t_ \--”

“Pete.” Joe cuts him off, and slides his hand up, carding his fingers through Pete’s hair. “Look at me.” Pete swallows thickly, and looks up, and there are tears streaming down his face, fucking up all that gay-ass eyeliner (Joe sucks dick and he’s pretty sure Pete’s makeup is gayer than him) and Joe just shakes his head. “Happy place.” He says simply, and Pete exhales slowly before closing his eyes. Patrick and Andy are outside, helping set up and trying to placate the fans until they can come out, and Joe just sits and breathes with Pete until his pattern is something like normal.

“You good?” He asks, and Pete nods stiffly, setting his jaw.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Joe just shrugs.

“Always, man.”

 

-0-

 

Later, when they’re done washing the concert-sweat off, and Pete has curled up and fallen asleep on the couch with his head in Patrick’s lap, Andy turns to him, sprawled over one of the queen beds, and shakes his head.

“How do you do it?” He asks, and Joe smiles.

“It’s the happy place, man. Cures all of Pete’s ills.” Andy raises an eyebrow.

“That’s a thing?” Joe shrugs.

“Yeah. You just...y’know. You think of the stuff that makes you, like, happy and comfortable and shit, and you make, like, a place out of it.” He closes his eyes as Andy rests his head on his chest. “And then when you’re freaking out, you go to the happy place.” Andy nods slowly, and his arm comes up, wrapping around Joe’s waist.

“So what’s Pete’s?” He murmurs, and Joe shrugs again.

“Don’t know. Never asked. Just made him think of one.” Andy’s quiet for a minute, and then;

“What’s yours?” Joe stays silent, racks his brain for something, anything, because he can’t exactly tell the truth, but he doesn’t want to lie, either.

“I’m sitting at a table, eating the world’s biggest fucking egg roll, and it just keeps going, and going.” He says, and Andy laughs softly, and sounds like angels.

“Nice.”

“Thanks.”

  
  
  


-0-

 

They do a reunion gig with Panic! and Cobra in Chicago, and all three bands get together after and...do what bands do. There’s a lot of alcohol, and a lot of weed, and Andy comes even though he doesn’t drink or take anything, just hangs out and laughs at Gabe when he falls off a table. At some point, Joe’s pretty sure he sees Andy and Brendon having some kind of really intense conversation across the room, but he’s not really sure, because the next second he’s getting tackled onto the hotel room bed by Nate and Alex, and they’re holding him down while Ryan fills his mouth with enough whipped cream to kill a small elephant.

 

Eventually, after Brendon and Ryan have snuck off into some corner to have hot steamy sex, and while Pete and Patrick are still sloppily making out (finally) by the bathroom, he lets Andy hoist him up and half-drag, half-carry him back to their room (because, of course, he and Andy have one room and Patrick and Pete have another, because that’s just how it is, now).

 

They make it back with minimal damage to their surroundings, and Andy dumps Joe on the bed. Joe pulls off his whipped cream-stained shirt and collapses on his side. He drifts in and out against the pillows, and vaguely registers that Andy’s taking a shower, and then there’s a bare chest pressed against his back, and Andy’s arm is sliding around his waist. There’s another bed, he’s aware, because they always book two queens, but he doesn’t much care. He reaches up and links his fingers with Andy’s, and falls asleep warm, and a little high, and happier than he’s been in a long-ass time.

 

-0-

 

Joe’s sitting in the back of the bus reading an article in National Geographic about dying monkeys while they’re in NYC to play Radio City when Andy walks in, and tugs him up out of his seat.

“Come on, we’re going to Chau’s.” And Joe raises an eyebrow, because this ain’t his first time round New York, and he knows that not only is Chau’s twenty blocks away, but it’s far from Andy’s favorite place to eat.

“Why not Ming Moon?” All vegetarian, all natural, all...Andy.

“Nah, Chau’s.” They’re outside the bus, now, walking down Broadway, and the night is actually really fucking nice, but Joe still needs to know.

“Yeah, but why, though?” Andy looks up at him, and smiles his little crooked smile.

“It’s all you can eat eggroll night.”He says, and Joe wants to die because he loves this man more than anything in the world.

 

-0-

 

The first time Andy kisses him, he’s not crying, but it’s a near-thing.

 

There’s one of those stupid fucking sit-down Q and A’s in Boston, and they all have to show up and sit behind a desk and answer as many questions as the reporters want to ask them, which is a whole fuck of a lot. And that would be fine, except that this one guy has a projector set up, and he shows them a bunch of slides of the fan-made shit about the band, which is cool enough. But then when he’s done, the projector stays up, and this other dude, Brian North, or something, takes it, and does something on his computer, and says;

“Well, guys, I know that was a lot of nice things those fans had to say, but this is less...um….nice, I think. Pretty on-point, though, if you ask me.” And he clicks something on the laptop, and a picture pops up on the projector of the four of them standing in a line.

 

Except someone’s taken a silver sharpie, and written all over it. Andy’s got ‘weird’ written across his chest, and Patrick’s got ‘fat, but he sings good??’ above his head. Pete’s got a square drawn around him, and above it the word ‘hot’ has been spelled out in hearts. And Joe….

 

Joe’s face has been crossed out, and underneath it says, in all capital letters, ‘UGLY’.

 

They all stare at it for a second, and then the reporter asks, “So, guys, what do you think?” And before Pete can say something spiteful and before Andy can politely ask for it to get turned off, Joe grins, and leans forward, taking the mic from Patrick before Patrick can even react.

 

“Well, it’s pretty accurate, I mean, have you looked at Pete?” And the whole crowd starts laughing, and Joe hands the mic back to Patrick, leans back in his chair, and ignores the fact that the other guys all look supremely uncomfortable.

 

Patrick says that it’s time they get going, and Joe steps off stage without looking back, walks straight through the door behind the tables, and keeps walking.

 

He doesn’t stop until he gets to the bathroom, can shut the door and lock it, and it’s then when he can slide down the wall to the floor, let his head rest against his knees, and breathe.

 

He knows he’s not conventionally attractive. He knows people are always going to label him and Andy as the weird ones, or the ugly ones, or the guys who ‘don’t matter’ but it’s never been shoved in his face, before. He figured that at least if he could avoid seeing that shit, it wouldn’t be a problem. And he feels like a fucking idiot, because he’s fucking 24 years old, and he shouldn’t be freaking out about something that matters as fucking little as some stupid teenage girl drawing on a photo with a marker.

 

But for some reason, his fingers are curling tight in his hair, and his chest is constricted, and wow, this must be how Pete feels when his shit happens, except Pete’s probably way the fuck worse. He grits his teeth, and closes his eyes, and tries as hard as he possibly can not to fucking scream.

 

There’s a knock on the door, light, and gentle, and he knows before he opens it, before he even forces himself up off the floor, who it is.

 

Andy’s standing there, staring up at him through his glasses, and before Joe can say anything, he’s got his arms wrapped around his neck, and Andy’s nose is pressed into his shoulder, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t process at all, before gripping Andy’s waist, tight, and secure, and leaning into him, pressing his face into the crook of Andy’s neck.

 

And he’s not crying, there are no tears, he hasn’t cried since he was sixteen, but his breath is coming out in short little gasps, and he kind of, sort of, can’t move a little bit, and Andy’s fingers are tangling in his hair, stroking the back of his neck, down between his shoulders. He pulls back, and shakes his head, slowly, because the words just aren’t coming, and Andy just nods.

 

Nods, and stands up on his toes, just a little, and presses his lips to Joe’s, soft, and gentle, and so fucking Andy that it hurts.

 

And Joe wants to push him away, wants to tell him he’s not worth this, that Andy can do better and can be better than he will be with Joe, but his hands aren’t listening to his brain, and are sliding up Andy’s sides, and cupping his cheeks as tenderly as he possibly can, because this, the feeling of Andy’s lips against his and Andy’s hands in his hair might be the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire fucking life, and he’s a selfish asshole, but he can’t give that up. Not yet.

 

He’ll stop later.

  
  


-0-

 

So the thing about doing it later is that they don’t do anything else. Andy kisses Joe, and Joe kisses back, and then Andy tugs him wordlessly out of the bathroom, and back toward the bus, and Joe follows, because what the fuck else is he gonna do. They sit down on the pull-out in the back, and they’re just quiet for a minute, with Andy’s head on Joe’s shoulder, waiting for Pat and Pete to come back in, and when they do, Pete walks to the back of the bus, and curls up on the futon next to Joe, with his head pillowed on Joe’s lap, and Patrick says a few words to the driver, and then lies down behind Pete, wraps an arm around his stomach, and unceremoniously tugs one of the pillows out from under Joe’s ass so he can use it.

 

The bus pulls out of the parking lot, and Joe moves one hand, resting it on Pete’s shoulder, and lets the other one move to his right, his fingers tangling with Andy’s. They all fall asleep like that, not for the first time, or the last, curled up together in the back of the bus.

 

When Joe wakes up, Pete and Patrick are up already, having moved up front, and Patrick is whisper-yelling at Pete about something. Joe gently dislodges Andy’s head from his shoulder, and lays him down on the futon, before getting up and pacing to where they are.

“Alright, lovebirds, what are we fighting about, now?” He asks, and Patrick just holds up his phone with one hand plastered over his face.

 

It’s open to twitter, and Patrick’s on Pete’s page, scrolling down through his tweets.

 

@petewentz: certain reporters should keep in mind to stfu in the future

@petewentz: Joe Trohman is th hottest human on earth.

@petewentz: seriously, @brian_north watch your fucking back.

@petewentz: @brian_north i know where you live, asshole.

@petewentz: if u ever say that kind of shit to my band again, i’m gonna fucking murder you.

  
  


Joe looks up, and sees that Pete is trying, really trying, to make himself look ashamed, but the grin just keeps spreading over his face like wildfire, and all Joe can do is grin back and punch him in the shoulder, harder than usual, but not as hard as he possibly could. Patrick just rolls his eyes.

 

Needless to say, two weeks later they get a phone call saying that Brian North has taken out a restraining order out on Pete. No-one is surprised, and no-one is particularly upset.

 

-0-

 

They don’t talk about it, which might be the weirdest part, because usually they talk about everything.

 

Before a show, Andy will grab him just before he goes onstage, and lock their lips together, send him out a little wobbly and make him strum the first chord harder than usual. After, when they’re both covered in sweat and panting, he’ll press Andy up against the door of the dressing room, and suck marks into his neck as though anyone could possibly notice in and amongst all the tattoos.

 

It’s a rhythm that they fall into. When one day, Patrick asks what the deal is, Andy just replies, “Who cares?” and while Joe does very much care, he says nothing.

 

-0-

 

They do it in the back of the bus while Patrick and Pete are doing some interview that no-one cares about. It’s fast, and hard, and sloppy, and it ends up with Joe coming into Andy’s hand, spurting all over both their chests, and gasping his name against his shoulder because he fucking _can’t do this anymore._

 

And afterward, when Andy falls asleep, Joe trudges into the tiny bathroom, and takes a shower, stares at himself in the mirror and remembers that he’s a fucking terrible person.

  
  


-0-

 

They’re at a party with MCR, which is held at Gerards unsurprisingly giant and extravagant house, and Joe sees Andy kiss some girl.

 

Which is not exactly surprising, because this was what he wanted, and this was why he never talked about it, because he wanted Andy to not get involved, wanted Andy to stay away from him if need be.

 

But he still rushes into the weirdly nice bathroom, unable to see or think straight, and when some random dude from this weird LA grunge band hands him a pill, he takes it, because why the fuck not.

 

And if he couldn’t see straight before, he really can’t, now, because everything is swirls and soft blues, like a fucking Vincent Van Gogh painting, and he doesn’t really know where is, or where he’s going, but he knows he needs to find Andy.

 

Which he does, he thinks, because someone grabs him, and wrestles him outside, sits him down, and makes him drink something that doesn’t taste like beer, so it must be water. There’s a hand on his forehead, and then a pair of lips, and then he passes out.

 

-0-

 

He wakes up in bed, with Andy noticeably absent, and feels like a shithead. This continues for a long time.

  
  


-0-

 

Andy and Joe have not spoken directly to one another in a week when it happens.

 

When Joe was sixteen, his girlfriend of two years, Patricia, broke up with him. That night he drove to Pete’s house, with his eyes full to the brim with tears, and told him he wasn’t going to college. Pete listened, nodded, and told Joe that they were starting a band. And that was that.

 

The next time Joe cries is nine years later, when he finds Pete unconscious in the seat of his car in a Best Buy parking lot, with an empty bottle of Ativan lying on the floor next to him.

 

And he does cry. He sobs and shouts and shakes Pete like a fucking ragdoll, screams for someone, anyone to _“Help. Someone, please, help, please, fucking help me, please--”_ pulls Pete out onto the cold, hard pavement and cradles him close so that his best friend’s head rests against his chest and whispers that he needs to _“Wake up, please, Petey, wake up, please, it’s not fucking funny, wake the fuck up.”_

 

They won’t let him in the ambulance when they cart Pete off to the hospital, won’t even let him into his room in ICU when the surgery’s done until he’s given the cops a fucking statement, but after seventeen hours he’s finally allowed in, with Patrick and Andy following close at his heels. Patrick’s gone white as a fucking sheet, which is the opposite of surprising, and Andy’s lost every last bit of the calm, cool, collected demeanor he always carries around. He’s tapping his foot in the most Pete-like fashion he possibly can, and he can’t stop moving, not for a second, and as soon as they get into the room, he perches at the end of Pete’s bed, sitting curled into a ball on top of the plastic bars. Patrick takes the chair beside it, and Joe takes one look at Pete, lying on crisp white sheets with an IV in his arm, and walks straight back out of the room.

 

He doesn’t see or hear from anyone for a few hours, can only assume someone would call him if Pete did, in fact, die.

 

Joe has never been good at being selfless, and right now, he can’t be bothered to feel bad, so he does the only thing he can think to do. He goes to his mom’s house, sits in her basement, and smokes enough weed to kill an elephant. He sits there, and stares at the wall, and tries as hard as he possibly can not to think about the fact that Pete’s lying half-dead in a hospital bed haflway across town.

 

Eventually, his mom comes down and wants to know what happened, and he tells her in the most plain way he can.

“Pete tried to kill himself. I found him in his car in a parking log.” His mom looks at him for a long minute, and says;

“Sweetheart, you stay here as long as you need, but that boy is gonna wake up and need you.”

He’s dubious, even though probably shouldn’t be, at this point. He stays on his mom’s couch that night, and when he wakes up at 11 the next morning, there’s an old picture of him and Pete from highschool, dressed as skeletons for halloween, sitting on the coffee table, with a note from his mom that just says;

'At work, keep your phone on for that call.'

 

Sure enough two days later his phone rings and it’s Patrick, and all he needs to hear are the words “He’s awake, he’s asking for you.” before he’s in the car and on the road. He drives with the radio on, and doesn’t smile when Grand Theft Autumn comes on, turns it off, actually, because his chest hurts too much.

 

He gets to the hospital, and finds Pete’s room, and just outside he stops, because he has to, because Peet’s in there and all he can think about is a white tile floor and a pink bathtub and Pete not breathing. He stands in front of the door and stares at it and doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he exhales as a gentle hand rests on his lower back. He turns, and Andy’s there. Andy’s not jumping all over the place, or perched at the foot of a hospital bed, he’s standing still and steady as always, and Joe doesn’t mean to fall over and into Andy’s arms, but he does, he’s not even aware that he’s done it until Andy’s hands are sliding up his back and into his hair, and Andy’s cheek is pressed against his ear.

 

They’re just quiet for a long moment, and then Andy says;

“He needs you.” And Joe just nods, disentangles himself from Andy’s arms, and steps through the door into Pete’s room.

 

There’s a lot of shouting (Joe) and a lot of crying (Pete) and it ends up with Pete curled up in a ball in the bed, with his fingers fisted tight in his hair. With Joe saying “What the fuck did you think I was going to do without you?” and Pete just shaking his head and saying “I don’t know.”

 

And Joe...Joe’s never been able to just leave Pete like that, hasn’t walked away from a crying Wentz in ten years, so it’s only natural that he moves forward, and pulls Pete into his lap, holding his entire body close with his god-blessedly long arms, and shaking his head over, and over, and over, saying ; _“You can’t do this, Pete, you can’t fucking leave me, I need you, you asshole, I fucking need you--”_

  
  


And Pete presses his face into Joe’s shoulder, and wraps his arms as tightly around his waist as they can go considering the needles in them, and just sobs, lets his entire body shake and shudder as he shakes his head against Joe’s shirt, and mumbles like a mantra; “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”_ until his voice is so hoarse he can’t talk anymore.

 

Somehow, despite Pete’s hatred of hospitals, and the fact that visiting hours are now definitely over, they fall asleep like that, with Joe leaning against the wall, and Pete leaning against Joe, and when he wakes back up, Andy and Patrick have somehow squeezed themselves into the bed, with Andy asleep against Joe’s shoulder, and Pete and Patrick curled up together at the other end of the bed. They look kind of like a pile of puppies, Joe muses.

 

He nudges Andy with an elbow to his ribs, and Andy blinks awake, haphazardly pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Hey.” He mumbles, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

Joe shrugs. “Who can really say?” And Andy graces him with a little grin.

It might be one of the best things Joe’s ever seen, and he wants to lean in and kiss it, wants to touch it and feel it and make it his, but stops himself. Looks and Andy again, and says;

“What are we doing?” And Andy, smart, stoic, fucking incredible and perfect Andy, doesn’t say ‘uh, sitting in bed’. No. Andy nods, and looks down, and says;

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, and squeezes Joe’s hand where their fingers have come together. “But I know I love you, and I want more of it, whatever it is.”

 

Joe’s quiet for a long moment, and then leans forward and rests his forehead against Andy’s, eyes closed.

“I don’t wanna fuck this up. I don't wanna fuck you up.”

 _"_ You won't."

"I will."

 

Joe ducks his head, and catches Andy’s lips with his own, just as soft and sweet as the first time. Andy’s free hand travels up, and his fingers curl in the collar of Joe’s ratty old t-shirt, and as they part, Joe gets up, as fast as he can, without looking back, and walks out the door.

 

-0-

 

It’s not so much that Fall Out Boy ‘breaks up’, as in, breaks up for good, as it is that they stop remembering to make music. They talk, sometimes, although Joe avoids talking to Andy directly, just kind of sits around and hopes he’ll call but also hopes he won’t and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t. He sleeps alone, and wakes up cold, and hates every second of it.

 

He hugs Pete almost as tight as he did in the hospital when he finds out that he’s gonna be a dad, and subsiquently, when he’s asked to be one of the groomsmen, which basically means that Pete is gonna make him wear a fucking stupid suit and stand behind Patrick while he gets married.

 

Which he does, and he doesn’t want to see Patrick’s hand curl into a fist when Pete kisses Ashlee and officially becomes a husband, but he’s also glad he does, because at least one of them understands that there’s something between them.

 

He’s also not particularly surprised when he gets a call from Pete, who’s not crying, and sounds something resembling fine, telling him that Ashlee’s decided she wants a divorce, two years later.

 

In those two years, he does….nothing. Releases a single, which is shit, and he knows it, and it definitely wasn’t worth the time. He drives to Pete’s, and sits with him, and they get wasted and play GTA II and pretend nothing’s wrong, when everything’s wrong, and in the morning he ruffles Bronx’s hair, and leaves.

 

He hasn’t seen Andy, who was in Malaysia during Pete’s wedding, since that night at the hospital, and he misses him every fucking day.

 

And he’s sitting on his ass doing absolutely fucking nothing one fucking cold January night, when his phone rings, and it’s Patrick, which isn’t so unusal, but when he picks up, the first thing he gets is;

“We’re getting the band back together.”

And the first thing he thinks is.

_It’s been four years._

And the first thing he says is;

“Absolutely not.”

  
  


Two hours later, he’s caved like he always fucking does and told Patrick he’ll do it, and he’s throwing his laptop and his phone charger into a backpack and hitting the road, leaving his condo behind because who the fuck wants a condo when you’re in fucking Fall Out Boy?

 

They meet up at a diner of all places, and Joe pointedly does not glance over at Andy every five fucking seconds, and definitely does not take careful note of the fact that his hair is completely different, now, and he has a fuckton of new tatoos, and when they’ve all eaten (and it’s been a while, because Patrick has gotten way the fuck skinnier than he was last time Joe saw him, must have been six months ago) Pete says he’s got something for them in his car.

 

They go outside, and it’s fucking freezing, and Pete opens the trunk, and it’s full, fucking full, of old FOB merch, t-shirts, vinyls, scrubs, hats, everything. They pull it all out, and at the bottom there’s a gas can and a book of matches, and they all think pretty much the same thing.

 

So they drag this giant pile of shit to the field down the road from the shitty diner they were just in, and Patrick makes the first flame, sets a snapback on fire and throws it down in the snow, and then they’re all doing it, throwing everything in and laughing like Joe hasn’t heard himself laugh in years, and at some point, he feels something bump up against his arm, and Andy’s standing next to him. The fire is lighting up his face, and he looks like a fucking angel, and Joe missed him, missed him so fucking much, and he moves just a little bit closer, just close enough that he can slide his arm around Andy’s back, and he’s never been so fucking terrified in all his life, because Andy’s looking straight ahead, into the fire, and he was smiling before, but he’s not now. And it’s fucking horrifying.

 

Until Andy’s arm comes up and wraps around Joe’s back, and he turns to make eye contact, and says;

 

“I love you.” And Joe nods slowly, cause yeah, he does, but the fact that they spent four years apart doesnt-- “And I’m done fucking around.” And that stops his train of thought, because Andy just fucking cursed, which is fucking incredible. “You’re not gonna ruin me, Joe. You make me better. And I don’t want to have to be without you, again, so just.” He breaks off, and his voice sounds wrecked, and broken, and so very fucking Andy that it hurts, and Joe just  looks up and stares at him with his mouth open like a fucking fish for a second until he can find words.

“Andy, I--”

He’s cut off by Andy’s mouth on his, hard, and fast, and desperate as fuck, and it doesn’t even occur to him to stop, because it’s fucking freezing out, and Andy’s got a hand in his jacket, sliding around under the hem of his shirt, and his fingers are tangled in what little is left of Andy’s hair, and it’s fucking perfect.

“Hey,” He mubmles against Andy’s lips, and Andy nods just a little, just enough for him to understand, and he grins. “ I love you, too.” And if the kiss he gets is any indication, that was the right thing to say.

 

He hears cat calls, and looks up to see Pete standing with his hand linked with Patrick’s, his other one holding up the cellphone he’s just used to snap a photo with.

 

Joe looks at Andy, who’s grinning that stupid fucking perfect grin, and gives him something to really take pictures of.

  
  


-0-

  
  


EPILOGUE:

 

There’s something biting him.

 

More specifically, there’s something biting his neck.

 

 _More_ specifically, there’s Andy, who’s pressed up against him from behind, already hard against his thigh, nipping at his neck as he slowly drags himself awake.

“What are you doing?” He mumbles into his pillow, and feels Andy’s laugh against his shoulder.

“Waking you up?” Joe smirks, eyes closed, and rolls over, pinning Andy to the bed, and ducking his head to rub their cheeks together.

“Well good morning, then.” He murmurs, and grins as his thigh slides between Andy’s, and the drummer makes a soft whining sound in the back of his throat. “And good _morning_.” He growls, sliding his lips down over Andy’s jaw to his neck, and thrusting his hips lazily down, again. Andy’s fingers come up and tangle firmly in his hair, and he pulls back just enough to lock their lips together as Andy’s hips jerk up against his.

 

He smiles against Andy’s mouth.

 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too."


End file.
